


Song of the Emperor

by Achilles_Angst



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Angst, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, Gaby is still awesome, Multi, Pining, but there will be a happy ending., captive prince au, this is basically a retelling of Captive Prince tbh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-06
Updated: 2019-01-26
Packaged: 2019-05-03 02:32:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14558937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Achilles_Angst/pseuds/Achilles_Angst
Summary: When Napoleon, rightful heir to Aquitas and the kingdom, is captured and sent to Aissur as a bed slave, he is fully expecting either quick escape or quick death. He isn't expecting a prince controlled by a regent and a brilliant (but female) engineer. He isn't expecting to care about the strange wild kingdom and its beautiful, lethal Prince. And falling slowly and unavoidably in love definitely isn't part of the plan.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! So this is my first MFU fic, and the idea's been going around and around my head for ages, so here we are! Still haven't worked out the chapter thing but there WILL BE MORE. I'll try to update regularly, but it depends what school hurls at me.  
> Comments are my lifeblood.  
> Virtual hugs to all readers!

Song of the Emperor

Napoleon's head cracked back with the force of the blow. There were a dozen of them, all good fighters. He should know. He had trained with many of them. He lashed out a leg, connecting solidly with a torso. The man hissed, but stayed up. Napoleon pivoted and punched the nose of one he recognised. Lazar. They'd been barrack mates. His nose gave with a satisfying crunch and a spurt of blood. Napoleon Sensed the next blow before it hit, and whirled around just in time to see a fist baring down towards him. He ducked and sidestepped, only for someone to grab onto his arms from behind. Napoleon writhed furiously, but whoever it was had a grip like iron. Kas, the one who'd broken into his room first, padded towards him. He was huge, and as he walked the muscles packed beneath his skin rippled and shifted. His nickname among the men was panther, and for good reason. Stopping mere inches from Napoleon, he smirked and ran a finger down his cheek, a bizarre imitation of intimacy. "Victoria sends her love" he hissed, and laughed at whatever expression showed on his face. Then he pulls his fist back, and slams it into his face, again and again, until darkness pulls him under.

When he wakes, he's chained to a wall. His head throbs dully, and it's a struggle to open his eyes. Blinking at his surroundings the muddled, indistinct shapes slowly pull into focus. The room he's in is large and airy. His chains are attached to rings sunk deep in the walls. And Victoria is sat directly in front of him, smiling demurely with a cup of wine in one hand. Napoleon jerks involuntarily at the sight of her. She looks as cool and collected as ever, dressed in a sleeveless summer dress, white except for a minimalist black zigzag decorating the bottom hemline. Her hair is tied elegantly back, as is the fashion. She is the picture of classical grace, and stunning. She is also almost undoubtedly the reason for behind his capture. Her eyes meet his and she smiles, her eyes dragging down his body. He suspects he looks awful. His tunic is definitely ripped, and what he can see of his arms are coated in bruises and scratches.

" Napoleon, darling." Napoleon snaps his gaze back to Victoria, who raises an eyebrow. " You do look a mess. Oh well. You can heal on the boat. The boys weren't too rough, were they?"                                                                                         "Boat?" He says blankly. Victoria laughs, high tinkling and completely false. " Did I not mention? You're leaving. With any luck, it'll give your little rebellion a pause. Trying to fight against my rule is never the best idea, darling." Napoleon stares. She knows? Why is he not dead? What had happened to the others? Apparently mind reading, Victoria speaks again. " Your little soldiers will be doing border patrols for the rest of their careers. I would execute them, but the border with Alemmae needs new men." Alemmae was attempting to conquer territory, and the border was reputed to be vicious. Few sent there lasted a month. Napoleon seethes. "How." He says flatly. Victoria laughs again. "You trust far too easily. Sanders barely had to lift a finger to be initiated into your little gang." Sanders. Ice hardens in his chest. That bastard. He had trusted him, used Sanders ' connections with older soldiers to win over tacticians who remembered the days of the Emperors, who remembered his father's rule. All that work, wasted. That utter bastard. Victoria stands, so she is chest to chest with him. She'd always been very tall. She touches a fingernail to the welt he can feel on his cheek, where one of the soldier's rings had cut the skin. She presses down, hard, until the fragile scabbing breaks and blood trickles down the line of his cheekbone, a single drop falling to stain his already soiled tunic. She retracts the finger, and delicately licks the blood from her fingernail, her expression predatory.                                                                                                                                                            Inwardly, Napoleon shudders. Victoria is merciless, and her delight is surely spawned from conceiving some hideous revenge for him. " And as for you, dear Napoleon... I admit, at first I thought a public execution might be fitting. The people you believe you should rightfully rule, cheering at your death... but Alexander had a much better idea." Alexander is Victoria's slave. He was gifted to her as a bed slave, but he also has an excellent imagination for revenge schemes, something Victoria takes full advantage of. " He suggested that you were only likely to give the crowd some rallying speech or talk the executioner into saving you should I choose public death as your punishment." She sighed delicately. " And alas, he is probably right. And killing you privately.... I want you to suffer, not have some quiet exit. So. I thought you might be more upset by total humiliation, by stripping you completely of everything you care about...Have you heard of the savage prince?"

The question is so out of the blue that it gives Napoleon momentary pause. " Yes." He says honestly, because everyone has heard of the savage prince. He is infamous here is Aquitas. Prince of the vast, wild kingdom of Aissur, he is famed for his skill with a sword and tactical abilities. He is a warrior who fights alongside his men. He also apparently drinks the blood of his enemies, murders women and children, and eats everything raw, but Napoleon doubts the local tavern is the world's most accurate source. The main reason for his fame is his father, who killed the last emperor of Aquitas. It was really pure cosmic misfortune that Napoleon was the emperor's son. Napoleon had been eight, far too young to do anything, and the kingdom had lapsed into civil war.                                                                                                                                     Napoleon's mother, intelligent to the last, had quietly enrolled her son in a training camp before she'd been hunted down by the new government's men. The training camp had been vast, hellish and a jarring culture shock. Napoleon was a common enough name, and a small black haired boy hardly garnered much attention. He was good at the sword fighting though. Good enough to be selected for the training school in Aquitas, and to rise through the ranks to become one of the best swordsmen of his age group. When he'd become a soldier he'd won tournaments. That had started the idea of rebellion for him. His barrack mates were cheering after he'd brought a round with tournament money, and he'd thought, _they would fight for me._  It had spread from there, and they'd been close to their first big movement before this had happened.

A calculated backhanded slap yanks him back to the present. Cheek smarting, he looks at Victoria again. " I don't know him personally." Victoria laughs at that, and Napoleon wonders if she's finally gone insane. She was always close to the brink. Victoria smiles, and it is sharp edged and vicious. " You will be getting a chance to know him very personally indeed. We are sending Aissur a gift. Twelve of our finest new slaves. And you, dear Napoleon, are going to be the centre of attention." Napoleon tries to work out her meaning. Is he going to be publicly killed in Aissur instead? " The prince dislikes slaves, but he can hardly refuse our gift. The twelve will be offered to him, but it is likely that he'll leave them to his courtiers. But you, he will be unable to refuse. You will be our crowning jewel." Napoleon blinks, horrified. Surely he's misunderstood. " You aren't much good at obeying orders, but you can learn, I'm sure. And you are _so_ good in bed." No. No no no no no. " A bed slave." he says, hollow. Victoria smiles her shark smile. "Exactly." she murmurs, then plucks a bottle from an alcove somewhere behind him. Something strange-smelling and cold is dabbed under his nose, and the room spins for a moment before everything fades to black.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Sorry this took so long, the next one will be way faster.  
> Warning: fight scene. Two characters fight but no lasting injuries are obtained.

Chapter 2

Napoleon wakes briefly, in flickering darkness. The rhythmic rocking takes his addled brain a moment to place, but the word 'boat' floats to mind. The light is coming from long horizontal cracks in the ceiling, and Napoleon thinks 'planks.' All the thinking hurts his head, so he watches the wavering lights until his eyelids slip shut and he falls down, down, down into nothingness.

When he next wakes his head is aching and his mouth is painfully dry. The air around him is hot and still. He is naked, and a heavy metal cuff is clasped to one wrist. It has a chain attached, which is linked to a ring in the wall. There are a dozen such rings stretching away down the wall, but the room is empty except for him. The walls, floor and ceiling are all made of the same smooth light grey stone, and on the other side of the room there is a large pool. Napoleon thinks that the water would come up to his chest easily. The ceiling is high, and around the tops of the walls there are glassless windows, filling the room with soft light which could indicate either early morning or evening. On one wall are two separate pieces of hanging fabric, about a foot away from each other. He assumes these are doors. Cautiously, he sits, then stands. His head spins for a moment, but then the world stills. The chain he is attached to is long, and the pool is not that far. He takes a wobbly step, then another and another, until he reaches the edge of the water. Sitting down, he cups his hand, scoops a handful, and brings it to his lips. It tastes fine, and he is too thirsty to truly care. After gulping several mouthfuls, he shifts forward. Cautiously, he lowers himself in. The water is cool and feels silken against his legs. The bruises left by his attackers have healed, but the water still feels soothing to his skin. Closing his eyes, he crouches to fully submerge himself. It feels wonderful, and he runs his fingers across his scalp, trying to remove any remains of his journey from his hair. Gritty tangles are not good. When he surfaces, a woman is standing by the pool. Napoleon starts, surprised and a little alarmed.   
In careful Aquaean, she asks;  
" Are you washed?"   
"Do you have any soap?" He says easily in Aissuran. He is good with languages. He used to learn from other soldiers when he was posted in remote spots.   
The woman smiles very slightly, although she looks like she is fighting not to. She goes to the right piece of material, and shoves it sideways. This one is not a door but a cupboard, he realises. It is crammed with bottles and jars of all shapes and sizes. Napoleon stares. The Woman smirks slightly, and tilts her head at him. " Would you like to choose?" She calls. Despite this being the native language if he is in Aissur, she still has a soft accent, which makes her words slightly sharper.  
"I'll trust your judgement." He has no idea what scents are used here, and hopefully this lady will know what to pick.  
A slim blue bottle is selected and passed down to him. It takes a tug to get the stopper out, making his chain clink. Carefully, he tips the bottle toward his hand until a thick gloopy liquid pours into his palm. Placing the bottle on the side, he sniffs the liquid, intrigued. He cannot place the scent, but it makes him think of forests.  
Working the stuff into his hair, he takes a guess at the woman's accent.  
" Thank you." He says in the native tongue of Alemmae. The eyebrow rises again, but a definite smile is curling the corners of her mouth. " You speak well..."The smirk is back full force. "...For a foreigner."   
Ducking his head again to remove the thick lather of suds he's accumulated, Napoleon smiles at her. Friends will be useful here, and this lady seems to know what she's doing. Thinking of which...  
" What's your name?" He cannot call her the lady forever.   
"Gaby." It's a common enough name in Alemmae but it suits her, Napoleon thinks. Fast and practical. " I'm Napoleon." Gaby nods, and retrieves a towel from the supply cupboard. She holds it out with an expectant look. Napoleon pulls himself out of the water and pads over, chain dragging behind him. Gaby seems unbothered by his nudity, and Napoleon wonders vaguely about the clothing rules here. Wrapping the towel around him, Napoleon pauses. He isn't particularly worried about being naked in front of others, but some intrinsic part of him doesn't want to get dry with a virtual stranger. It's ridiculous, seeing as not only has Gaby already seen all of him, he has washed with total strangers in the barracks. Gaby solves this dilemma for him by turning on her heel and heading through the left curtain, which apparently is a door. "Stay where you are" are her parting words. Napoleon could point out that the chain isn't long enough for him to get near the door, let alone exit through it, but he's too busy getting dry as fast as possible. He's towelling off his hair when Gaby reappears, carrying a small bundle of white fabric. The bundle is handed to him, and reveals itself to be a pair of loose cotton trousers, with white strips trailing from the waist and ankles. Pulling them on, he realises the purpose of the strips- they are wrappings. The chain is cumbersome, but he manages to wrap the first securely around his waist, carefully tucking in the end. The ankles are easier, and once he's finished he looks more carefully at Gaby's outfit. She is wearing a long loose top which goes to her knees. It looks to be made of cotton, dyed pale yellow and with minimalist embroidery around the neck. Below the knee are unmistakable trousers, mostly white like his apart from the complex embroidered patterns all over the wrappings. Her feet, like his, are bare.   
Gaby stalks over to where the chain meets the wall, and does somthing complicated with her hands, blocking his view with her back. There is a click, and then Gaby is grabbing the end of his chain, her eyebrow raising. " Don't try anything stupid." She says flatly. Napoleon rolls his eyes. He is in unfamiliar territory, cuffed on one wrist, with no idea where he is. Despite what Gaby clearly thinks, he isn't that much of a fool.  
Clutching the end of his chain, Gaby goes again to the cupboard, and comes back clutching a thin strip of material. Standing in front of him so the chain coils on the floor next to them, she indicates that he should lower his head. The blindfold is tied securely over his eyes, and Napoleon blinks, eyelashes dragging on the tight material.  
The chain pulls forward suddenly, and he obediently follows. They brush through something that must be the other curtain, and then he is walking on cold stone, presumably in a corridor. The sound of their feet hitting the surface echoes slightly, and Napoleon briefly wonders just how long the corridor is. The blindfold makes him dizzy, and he has to focus on putting one foot in front of the other. Occasionally he hears fragments of sound, snatches of conversation all in Aissuran. At one point a salt scented breeze brushes his skin, and he wonders how close the sea is. The corridor twists and turns. Abruptly Gaby stops, making him stumble. There are lots of voices, all talking fast and apparently all having different conversations, not all in the same language. The blindfold is tugged off from behind, and the rush of light leaves him blinking. A huge man is standing before him, bulky and coated in mesmerising tattoos. Patterns coil and spill across his skin like ink in water. He is wearing the same plain white trousers as Napoleon, as well as a pair of golden cuffs. Slave, Napoleon's brain helpfully fills in. Powerful slave. Gaby, stood at his side like a sentinel with the blindfold dangling from her fingers, smiles at the tattooed man. " Garth. This is the new one. Napoleon. For the Prince."   
Garth smirks lazily at him.  
"The prince's new pet? Pretty. Doubt you'll last, but they never do. He's a wild thing, our prince. Fire and fucking ice. He'll eat you alive, sweetheart."   
Napoleon blinks at this onslaught of information. His eyebrow rises out of habit. " I've got some fight in me, sweetheart." He wonders if Garth will retaliate, but instead a smile cracks his face. "Fighter huh? You've got a mouth anyway. Prince'll love that."   
Garth doesn't seem surprised that he speaks the language. Black-swirled fingers tip his chin up, thoughtfully tilt his head from side to side. For such a giant, Garth has a surprisingly light touch. " Nice bones, blue eyes. Gold." This cryptic message is delivered over his shoulder, spurring a flurry of activity. Gaby tosses the chain to Garth, nods at Napoleon and walks out. He is led further into the room, over to what looks suspiciously like an anvil. A man with an astounding array of tools is leaning over it, and he smirks as Napoleon approaches.   
" He is pretty. How long d'you think he'll last? If the Prince doesn't want him I'll have him." Garth snorts. "This one can understand you, Ezza. And don't lay claim to the prince's property." Napoleon winces at the term. In the army, you aren't really thought of as a person, but you are considered human. This is a new low.   
Ezza catches his wrist, and tuts at the cuff. "Pathetic... no workmanship. Ugly. Should be tossed as scrap."  
Garth's voice in one ear. "Ezza has strong feelings about cuffs." Ezza's smirk seeps across his face. "You didn't complain when I fixed your cuffs...and broadened their uses." Garth raises an eyebrow, but he looks amused. "And of course Ez, you know all about those uses. In fact, perhaps you should make sure they're still working properly at some point tonight..?"   
Napoleon wonders if he should interrupt. He doesn't really want to see Garth jump Ezza, and both of them look like they're fully considering it as an option. Happily, a girl comes over and drops what looks like a sheet of beaten gold on the floor with a pointed clatter. Ezza leans back and returns his focus to Napoleon's wrist. He slips a slim tool into the minuscule space between Napoleon's wrist and the cuff, then pulls out a small rounded hammer. A few well placed taps and the cuff splits. The skin underneath is pale and tender.   
Ezza nods, apparently pleased. "I'll fix the new ones. Five minutes." Garth nods in return and in place of cuffs simply clamps a massive hand on Napoleon's shoulder. The grip feels breakable, but god knows what Garth'd do if he tried.  
A group of about five young men and women are chatting in a corner, but as Napoleon is steered over they all start grabbing at various pots and brushes, shouting instructions at each other. Garth tenderly suggests he take a seat by increasing pressure on his shoulder until he surrenders and drops onto a stool. A young lady tilts back his head and starts brushing over his cheekbones with what feels like a very fine dust. Another calmly instructs him to close his eyes, and something wet is carefully traced along the edge of his eyelids. He lets them get on with it, because death or solitary confinement here will not improve his options.  
Eventually the attack eases off and he opens his eyes. They are all standing back looking pleased with themselves. Gloomily, Napoleon wonders what on earth he looks like. Slaves in Aquitas don't usually have any form of decoration other than clothes. He is dragged from his thoughts by Garth, who tugs him back towards Ezza.   
In front of Ezza is a pair of rough golden cuffs, and... oh god. Horrified, he looks up at Garth, who raises an eyebrow. Oh no no no. He is not wearing that. Garth shoves him forwards, and he realises he's been unintentionally digging his feet in.   
Ezza is swift and efficient, pressing the cuffs around his wrists and sealing them shut with some kind of tool red hot from his forge. It's surprisingly fast, how quickly his freedom is visibly taken. Finally, Ezza picks up the collar. Napoleon forces himself not to wince, keeping his head high even as it is placed around his neck. Even as Ezza begins the process of sealing him in, he stands firm. If he ignores It hard enough, he tells himself the emotions won't rise, that he won't feel the rush of fear and shame and anger burning at the back of his head.   
Garth spins him around when Ezza's finished, and gives him a long look. Finally he nods, looking pleased. "Perfect. You look fine, everyone'll love you." The smile on his face has vaguely worrying implications, but Napoleon refuses to care. He will escape, he promises himself. He will not let this be his reality. He is dragged from his thoughts by Ezza tapping his hand. "Here. I have a mirror." Cautiously, Napoleon picks it up and looks unwillingly at his reflection. He blinks. Overall the effect is surprisingly subtle. His eyes have been rimmed with what he presumes is a form of Kohl. Victoria used to wear similar. Very fine golden glitter dusts the lines of his face, which brings out the contours and makes him look distinctly sparkly in the light. Admittedly, it isn't awful.  
Garth tugs his arm. "Stop admiring your cheekbones, blue eyes. We're leaving."  
He is marched by Garth, blindfold-less this time, out into yet another corridor. His safety impulse is muttering about keeping quiet and not doing anything stupid, but curiosity has always been his fatal flaw.  
"Where are we going?" Garth gives him a vaguely sympathetic look. "To meet the prince, sweetheart. What did you think all the preparation was for?" Huh. Napoleon had assumed it would be a while before he even laid eyes on a noble. Clearly not.   
" What should I expect?" Garth's shoulders rise and fall. It makes all his tattoos shift. "Ice or fire, sweetheart. Play nice." Napoleon starts to respond, but Garth cuts him off by nudging his shoulder. A vast pair of wooden doors looms suddenly at the end of the corridor, and Napoleon realises as they get closer that it's stunning- covered in intricate carvings of flowers and people all twining together. He wants to look for longer, but Garth gives a single rap on the surface and the door swings open. Napoleon is momentarily blinded, because the vast room he is looking into has vast open windows, all looking out over the sea, which is reflecting the sunset. Evening then. Blinking and awed, it is only as Garth bows that Napoleon notices the figure in complete shadow standing stock still by a pillar. Ignoring Garth's frantic motions suggesting he bow NOW, Napoleon resolutely stands tall. He will not bow to this faceless kidnapper. He is a warrior, a survivor. He was-is leading a rebellion to bring back the Empire and free his people from dictatorship. He is the son of the Emperor. He- The figure steps into the light. Napoleon stares. The man in front of him is possibly the most gorgeous being Napoleon has ever seen. Unlike the casual tunics and/or trousers everyone else wears, this man is in what must be military uniform. It is black and perfectly cut, which is not a compliment Napoleon gives lightly. All black works on few, but it works for this man. It brings the startling gold of his hair out. His eyes are the colour of the sea and framed with black eyelashes, and...  
"Normally, people bow."   
Napoleon drags himself furiously back to his situation. He notices the circlet only now, a strip of gold in gold. This is him then. The savage prince. Son of his father's killer. The very fucking reason why Napoleon is here, why Victoria rules, why his men are scattered. His blood is his family's blood. His blood killed the last emperor. Napoleon swallows his furious, writhing anger into a cold hard point. Plans to play nice crumple and burn. Napoleon makes a point of dragging his eyes up and down the killer's son in front of him. He focuses his gaze back at the eyes.   
" Sadly, I only bow to people I respect." Garth visibly edges back. The impassive gaze doesn't change, even as the man speaks. " I am Illya Kuryakin. I am the prince of Aissur. I will rule as my father did. I am the leader of my people." The prince's gaze sharpens and focuses like a bird of prey. "You are a slave. You are nothing. You have one purpose now. You serve." The prince's head tilts slightly, smug, and Napoleon surrenders to the anger and confusion and howling desire to fight he's been repressing since he spoke to Victoria, and finally strikes back. "You have no idea who I am. You are Prince in a king less kingdom. Why?" Napoleon calls to mind the most frequently repeated, strongest story about this man he knows. "You aren't a proper prince, are you? You're a bastard. You lack the sufficient amount of royal blood to rule. Your mother was a whore, wasn't she?" Napoleon relishes the way the impassive expression cracks, shatters. He keeps going. "Your father, so desperate for a heir he had to sleep with a whore. How much did it cost for the time taken to create you? Three pennies an hour? Or did she spread her legs for free for the king?"   
He senses the blow coming and shifts to the side, easy. The Prince's cheeks burn with anger, his eyes murderous as he swings for him again. Napoleon shifts, but this time the Prince was anticipating him and does something extremely fast with his leg, which connects solidly with Napoleon's thigh, sending him off balance. Napoleon, falling but unafraid to fight dirty, grabs a handful of golden hair and drags the Prince down with him. Now they are grappling on the floor, Napoleon ignoring every rule of fair play in favour of using his nails. The Prince is still fighting fairly, so Napoleon gets his fingers behind an ear and rakes his nails as hard as he can along the ear, knowing the skin there is sensitive. The Prince hisses, grabs Napoleon's hair and twists. Napoleon, entirely unrepentant, tilts his head up despite the burn in his scalp and bites down on the Prince's forearm as hard as he can. He only lets go when his hair is released, and now they are fighting dirty. The Prince clearly hasn't just learnt from tutors, because in place of technique it's now all tooth and nail, doing anything for the upper hand Napoleon tries to uses his cuffs, but they're too light and have smoothed edges. The circlet clatters to the floor, the Prince uncrowned. Napoleon slashes and bites and writhes free each time he gets pinned, and then it's back to the frantic struggle until one pins the other down. It's constant shifting, Napoleon getting on top then being shoved off, being pinned, writhing away, starting again. Sweat makes fighting harder, but Napoleon has more bare skin so it works to his advantage. He's moving across the floor when knees slam down against his thighs. The rest of the Prince's weight rapidly follows. Napoleon huffs at the weight and starts to wriggle free again. The Prince leans forward, and Napoleon shifts his hands in expectation. Unfortunately, the Prince wasn't aiming for his hands. Instead, teeth clamp onto the exposed line of Napoleon's collarbone. Napoleon jerks his hands up on reflex to try and shove his attacker away, which is when bigger hands wraps neatly around his and press them to the floor, one on either side of his head. The Prince leans back and stares at him as Napoleon tries furiously to squirm free. Eventually he huffs dejectedly and stills, held firm. They are both panting, chests heaving in tandem. Napoleon knows he's flushed with effort, and The Prince's cheekbones and ears have gone red. Sweat catches the sunset, the lines on The Prince's face lit orange and pink. Good fighter, thinks Napoleon. The Prince smirks victoriously down at him, and Napoleon shifts half heartedly.  
There is a pointed cough from the doorway. Napoleon tilts his head to see. A short, past middle aged man is standing there, a strange expression on his face.   
"Am I... interrupting something?" The Prince flushes harder, and pushes to his feet. " No. New slave. We had disagreement." The new man looks questioning for a second, then schools himself. Napoleon gets up and picks up the Circlet. He hands it over, smirks at the Prince 'cause he thinks it'll irritate him, and heads for the door.   
Garth is leaning against the wall outside, fiddling with a cuff. He must have gone during the fight. He looks up as Napoleon exits and then bursts out laughing. Napoleon blinks, bemused. "I think I met fire and ice." He admits. Garth gives a last wheeze of laughter, nods, and leads him down the corridor. When Ezza sees him, he starts laughing too, and hands Napoleon the mirror. Oh. His hair is in disarray, and the gold pigment has smudged (Now he thinks about it, the Prince had looked quite sparkly by the end of the fight.) the skin on his collarbone is bruising in the perfect shape of a ring of teeth. His cheeks and ears are still pink. His trousers are rumpled. He looks...fucked. Oops. Ezza grins at him. "So." He says cheerily. "I take it the first meeting went well?" Napoleon laughs despite himself, and shakes his head. "Pretty sure I made an impression."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So! I'm now a bit obsessed with writing this and spent today curled up inside ignoring the lovely weather I'm having here and typing like a madman.   
> Hope you like this chapter!

After the... explosive first meeting, everything actually calms a lot. Gaby talks him through his duties, which mostly involve doing whatever he's told. Ezza turns out to have a wicked sense of humour and extreme talent for forging jewellery, which he wants to do for a living. Garth answers his questions and tells Napoleon about his tattoos. They all accept him with remarkable ease.  
Napoleon talks with them, and watches exits and starts to learn the city. The city is out on a rocky spur of land, high above the sea. The palace is at the very peak, looking out over the sea and its citizens. Where the land slopes down, the city follows and blossoms into a port. Apparently the city and port where once separate, but the city grew and engulfed it and any small villages near it. There is a heavy guard on the boats, Garth tells him. Napoleon isn't allowed outside the palace, a rule heavily enforced by the guarded exits and sheer drops. Even the servant's exits are guarded, and slaves have to have a permit to leave stating purpose and time of return. Apparently if slaves do try to escape, there is no way for them to remove their collars or cuffs, making them instantly recognisable.  
He is actually expected to do very little. No one expects the prince to sleep with him, which is basically his job description. He can be ordered about by senior slaves, but because he is technically owned by the prince, there aren't that many who rank higher than him. Other nobles can order him, but they have their own slaves. After the fight, the Prince basically ignores him. Napoleon doesn't see him unless someone has ordered him to take something to him. He is as stunning as ever, that cold impassible mask constantly in place. The problem is, Napoleon knows that it is a mask. And he never has been very good at resisting impulse. The desire to drag the mask away grows and twists every time Napoleon sees him.  
The palace isn't the worst place to be imprisoned, all things considered. It's massive and centred around a vast main courtyard. The Nobles all live in suites of rooms, aided by slaves. The slave complex with the baths and the main room tends to be where the slaves mass to talk and relax. There are main baths and a vast indoor arena. Garth tells him there are fights there on specific days of the month. 

Napoleon's favorite discovery is the armoury and training room.His room (tiny but private due to his rank) is above the training room, and he finds it from the sounds of metal on metal echoing up during the mornings and afternoons. Ezza works part time in the armoury, and is always willing to chat, the conversation split by ringing hammer blows. The armoury is packed with deadly weaponry, which is all catalogued and daily checked, to Napoleon's extreme irritation. He likes the smell of the armoury though, the familiarity of the training room. He likes the great size of the training room, with its vaulted ceilings and windows letting in the light, positioned at the top of the high walls so the glass is not broken by a clumsy soldier.   
Napoleon misses fighting regularly, but slaves aren't allowed to use weapons. Ezza lets him practice if it's just them, but usually there are others working or sparring there. It's better than nothing though, and he spends a lot of time there, watching the fighters and mentally correcting them every time they botch a move. He wonders how the prince trains. He never sees him practice, and he's pretty sure that there are no private training rooms in the royal suite. 

Napoleon is lying in his room and cursing when he finds out. He's naturally a deep sleeper, but tonight it's meltingly hot and he cannot get comfortable. Irate, he decides to wander. There isn't an exact curfew, but everyone here follows a rigid sleeping pattern anyway. It's cooler in the corridors, and he wanders down to the armoury from habit, contemplating a bath. In the doorway he stops. 

He isn't alone. At the far end of the room, someone in deep shadow is setting into a hanging dummy with the kind of lethal skill most only dream of attaining. The sword sings as it slides through air, then barely makes a noise as it cuts through the dummy as cleanly as a needle. Straw drifts through the air. Napoleon watches, a little awed. It's almost a dance, that kind of gracefully effortless fighting. There will always be something beautiful about skill, about someone doing what they are great at. The figure shifts position easily, wheeling to attack the dummy from a new angle.  
Moonlight glints on golden hair, lines the muscles of a bare chest. The Prince. Once Napoleon knows, he wonders how he didn't guess immediately. Every move is controlled, perfect. The prince of ice. The urge to press in, to shatter this immaculate cover rises like a tide and Napoleon surrenders to impulse, the wave cresting, breaking and he steps out into the moonlight and remarks; "I think your footwork was off."   
The Prince whirls, sword at the ready. Fire and ice, thinks Napoleon.   
"My footwork was not off." Napoleon smirks, delighted. Take the bait, play the game. He pretends to consider, ruminates. " I don't know, I think you're supposed to step to the left." Scorn floods the Prince's face, but he's burning now, the fuze is lit.   
"What do you know?"   
Napoleon grins, wild because he's missed this, the burn in his blood and the itch in his skin, the urge to get closer and closer to a naked flame.   
"Fighting." He says, honest because he's been honed for it since he was a boy. One golden eyebrow raises.   
The Prince gestures expansively towards the sword rack and Napoleon takes his time to select one, enjoying the weight in his hand and the feel of the grip, breaking the law. He doesn't particularly enjoy fighting to kill, but he loves the art of it, the balance of the blade, the dance of footwork.   
Napoleon shifts into his favorite starting position, braced to either attack or defend. There is a moment of complete stillness, and then a blade swings through the darkness. Napoleon parries easily, twists and attacks. The Prince counters and Napoleon's brain steps back and lets his body take over. He is working with all his senses, the 'snick' sound swords make whipping through air, the smell of oil and fresh sweat and ever present sea salt, the feel of the sword in his hand, the taste of salt as he licks his lips. Visibility isn't great, the reflective swords throwing up dizzying beams of moonlight, dazzling in the gloom. He's fighting on instinct and sound now, the creak of floorboards, the whistle of displaced air. He's missed this.   
Fighting one on one without the desire to kill, sparring only for the thrill of it is subtly intimate, Napoleon thinks. You have to work out your opponent, try to know the next move they'll make so you can parry, attack, all without the blade slicing into them. The better you are, the simpler it becomes. And Napoleon is one of the best. The Prince, he has to admit, is also an excellent swordsman. But the mask is still in place. Napoleon speeds up, begins to strike harder, push further. He edges forwards, confident and alight with the desire to watch the fuse reach its end and to see the Prince burn, roar like an open fire. The Prince's blade slides down and Napoleon twists to the side and strikes. A thin red line appears on the Prince's bare shoulder, starkly illuminated against moonlight-tinted skin. Napoleon grins, bright and wild because the fire is roaring, and he's going to get burned but he really doesn't care. The Prince whirls, eyes burning and they are sparring like kingdoms depend on it, like they will raze or create worlds. 

Napoleon keeps pressing forwards, blade singing, never giving an inch away and pushing, stretching fingers towards the flames. The Prince is edging backwards towards the wall, Napoleon ups his attack, sword slicing arcs in the air, hearing nothing but his breathing and the ring of metal on metal.   
The Prince's shoulders hit brickwork and Napoleon thinks he's won right up until the Prince whirls under his sword and around him and suddenly it's Napoleon pressed against the wall, impressed and frustrated. The Prince smirks, raises his sword and presses the tip to Napoleon's collarbone, right where a set of tooth sized bruises have long since healed. Napoleon silently lifts his own so the point rests lightly in the dip of the Prince's throat. The Prince, one movement away from death. The last of the Kuryakin line, emeperor killers, one movement away from death. A young man with a circlet, one movement away from death.   
A man with a kingdom and a sword resting on his heartbeat. A man stripped of everything with a sword resting on his collarbone.   
Napoleon lowers his sword. The sword lowers from his collarbone. Neither of them move away. Something is changing, and Napoleon can feel it, curling through him like smoke. Abruptly he ducks away, replaces the sword in the rack. He is exhausted, he notes, physically tired but still jittery with adrenaline. Sweat slides down his spine, making the base of his hair damp. His chest heaves, breathing and heart rate elevated. He needs to get back into sparring regularly, or he'll lose his edge, he knows. Perhaps..?   
He turns, hopeful. "Do you... do this often?" A silent nod of assent, a slight quirk of the lips. "I am not usually interrupted." Napoleon grins, unapologetic.   
"Well, your majesty-" He is cut off with a brusque "Illya." Napoleon blinks. " Huh?" The prince sighs and gives him a vaguely disapproving look. "Illya. You make 'your majesty' sound like insult."   
Illya. Huh. Napoleon rolls the name around in his mind, fits it to the man. Illya. He likes it.   
"Well, Illya, would it be possible for me to do drills with the other soldiers?"  
Illya considers this. "No." Napoleon huffs out a breath, disappointed by his disappointment. What was he expecting? Slaves cannot use weapons. Napoleon heads for the door, nods to Illya as he passes. Just as he reaches the exit, the voice reaches him. "Be back here tomorrow. Same time. You can practice then."   
Napoleon nods again to indicate he's heard, then starts up the stairs for his room. He waits until the door shuts behind him to grin. Tomorrow night. He can keep training after all.


	4. Chapter four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Napoleon might be insane. Read on to find out!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter is here! I got really stuck on this one and kept stopping and starting so sorry if it's a bit disjointed.  
> Thank you, thank you lovely people who are continuing to put up with my hideously erratic updates. Your comments always make my day!

  
Napoleon goes back the next night. And the night after that and the night after that and suddenly it's habit.   
He relishes the regularity, the way his sword has started to feel like part of him again. He spars with Illya a lot, or practices silently next to him, running through drills he could do with his eyes closed until he can't remember how you could ever get them wrong.   
He starts to learn how Illya fights, all control and grace until something in him shatters and he starts fighting like the world is ending. If Napoleon thinks he is beautiful when he fights, he doesn't let it show.

After the first few sessions, Illya starts talking to him occasionally. It starts with him asking where Napoleon learnt, so Napoleon asks him who taught him.   
And somehow that turns into what could almost be called a conversation.

Napoleon learns about the noble system (convoluted as hell, essentially), which family hates which, that the way a man called Oleg is running the military is apparently shit, what foods are popular, why someone threw a plate across the courtyard yesterday morning.   
In return, he tells Illya about Aquitas, the weather and clothes and ideals, the foods he can make. He catches occasional fragments of Illya's sense of humour- scathing, and it comes with a tiny twist of the corner of his mouth that Napoleon finds in no way endearing.   
Illya is sometimes silent, often prickly and occasionally aloof. He can be as sharp as cut glass and has the sort of tactical mind most generals would sell their souls for. He is ludicrously determined. He is a good fighter. He is terribly, unfairly gorgeous. For some reason, Napoleon still enjoys spending time with him. Despite knowing all of this, Napoleon's curiosity remains unsatisfied. Why? He wonders constantly. Why do you stand like a warrior? Why do you trust so little? What makes you tick? Why do you let me train with you? Why do you fight me like the world depends on it? Why are you a prince in a kingless country? Why? Why? Why?

Despite the constant thrum of curiosity in his chest, It makes him feel better, this nighttime ritual. He feels useful with a sword in his hand, knowing he can still fight. It makes him think maybe he has a chance. He's gotten used to Illya, too. The way he fights, the way he talks. The way he responds to him. He still doesn't see much of him in daytime, but when he does it's almost friendly.

Gaby notices. Napoleon's taken to eating with her, sat next to Ezza's anvil in the slave hall. They've been chatting about blacksmithing, how Gaby wants Ezza to teach her to forge weapons. Gaby's eyes flare when she talks about forging and creating, hands pulling through the air like she can bring her designs to life from sheer will.

The conversation is waning and Napoleon looks over at Gaby, only to find her scrutinising him. "What?" He says, puzzled because he doesn't look any different to normal, he's sure.   
Gaby tilts her head thoughtfully. "You've stopped looking at the prince like you want to kill him. And... You look tired but... happier? More relaxed. Less restless." She blinks. "Mien Gott. You aren't..?"   
Napoleon laughs at the expression on her face and shakes his head reassuringly. "No. Definitely no. Not what you're thinking at all."   
Gaby squints suspiciously but doesn't push him, unlike Ezza, who spends most of the afternoon cackling and asking repeatedly what the prince is like in bed.

Tonight there's a thunderstorm. The air is hot and heavy as Napoleon pads down to the armoury, stifling as a blanket. To his surprise, the training room and armoury are empty, silent and still.   
Napoleon is surprised and a little disappointed; Illya has never missed a session. He's grown to enjoy their bickering, Illya's weird sense of humour and the way he smirks when he's pleased.  
He's about to grab a sword and lay into a dummy when he smacks his foot into one of the armoury shelves.   
Puzzled, he scowls at it. He only brought one rushlight down and left it in the holder by the door so now he can barely see, but he's certain the shelves aren't usually there. The armoury is shadowy and- a damp breeze brushes his ankle.   
That definitely shouldn't happen. Gently Napoleon runs his hands along the edge of the shelves. There. There's a gap between the shelves and the wall that shouldn't exist.   
Napoleon hooks his fingers in and gives the shelves a testing tug.   
They shift back easily, revealing a tiny crawl space. Napoleon eyes it in trepidation before his instincts decide he's done worse. He crawls for about two metres in total darkness, the damp air closing over him like an invisible tide until he hits a sharp bend and realises he can see faint light. He crawls forward, curious.   
His first instinct when he gets out of the tunnel is to retreat back in at high speed. He's in a tiny hollowed out nook in the side of the castle wall directly above the sea, some eighty feet below him. There would be room for about three men If they huddled. It's entirely open to the drop, no protective wall. Rain blows sideways inwards, slightly warm. Aissur has a hot climate, after all.

Illya sits in perfect stillness at the far end, legs crossed beneath him. He's soaked; he must have been here for a while. His expression is an odd combination of closed off and strangely vulnerable. His eyes are closed.

Napoleon grits his teeth against the height and crawls over to sit next to him, trying to ignore the sound of waves slamming into rocks far, far below him.  
Illya doesn't even bother to open an eye. "Go away."   
Napoleon rolls his eyes and shifts, trying to escape the stone digging into his back.   
"Dare I ask the purpose of this death trap?"   
Illya manages to communicate his scorn without moving his features at all, but deigns to answer him.   
"Bolt hole if city is attacked. Rocks in sea stop boats, and is invisible from anywhere on land."   
Well, that was factual. "Why are you sitting here in the middle of a storm?"   
Illya opens an eye and glowers halfheartedly at him. "Why are you?"   
Napoleon raises an eyebrow at him and tries to resist the strong urge to surrender to sarcasm.   
"Looking for you, funnily enough. This isn't exactly my ideal evening plan."   
The corner of Illya's mouth flickers briefly upwards before his face falls back into stony seriousness.   
His eyes look strange in the purple washed storm light. Their green-blue hue is brighter, more noticeably unusual. Those dark eyelashes sweep down and up in a blink, and Napoleon starts mentally. He should probably stop staring.   
Illya doesn't seem to have noticed. His eyes are on the storm clouds, vast and dark and stretching away above and in front of them. With the sea foaming into the sky, it feels a bit like the edge of the world.   
Illya watches, impassive. He has a very strange expression.   
" My father died in a storm like this."   
Napoleon nods cautiously in response. He knows little of this country's recent history beyond the war with Aquitas. This does explain Illya's strange behaviour though.   
"Were you there?" He watched his father die, choking on his own blood, the gaping wound in his chest slick with dark blood. The Army doctors hadn't even bothered to hold material against it. They'd known there would be no recovery from a wound like that.   
Illya laughs, a strange humourless sound quickly snatched by the storm.   
"I was there." There is something off about the way he says it, his tone falling oddly. Illya turns slightly, so he is directly facing him. His eyes are still that impossible green-blue. Napoleon cannot quite read his expression. The air between them feels heavy, charged with an intensity Napoleon doesn't fully understand.  
"I killed my father."   
Napoleon blinks, tries to process this new information, stares at Illya, tries to get his head around it. Illya's eyes are wide in his face, blazing with furious intensity and something that is almost self consciousness.  
"Did you intend to?" An accident could have been possible, after all.   
Illya laughs that strange humourless laugh again, and turns back to face the sea.   
"I impaled him with his own sword and pushed his body off the palace roof into the ocean so there could be no burial." He turns back to Napoleon, eyes blazing.   
"It was no accident."   
Napoleon nods quietly. The desire to know, to push boundaries and seep into the invisible workings of Illya's brain throbs against the walls of his chest. He wishes briefly that he had learnt more of this country's recent politics.  
He wonders if questioning will end with a tumble off this cliff face.   
Illya's face is more open here, though still difficult to read. That faint innocuous vulnerability lingers around his eyes.   
He looks simultaneously terribly young and old, a Prince who has cut his own strings and realised that that terrible game of politics and nobility has edges capable of cutting to the bone.   
Something clicks.

" That's why you aren't King, isn't it?"   
Illya glares at him, and Napoleon starts mentally writing his funeral service:   
"Napoleon Solo. He was a nosy bastard to the last. Did not manage to free his country from the tyrant. Died after being shoved of cliff by master who he was given to as a bed slave."   
Huh. Depressing, put like that.

For a fraught moment, Illya sits in frozen stillness. Napoleon stares down at the drop and braces his muscles in preparation for a shove. Finally, Illya's breath punches out of him like it's been forced, and the anger in his eyes dulls. His hand skitters across the floor, curls into a fist against his side.  
His voice is flat and devoid of emotion when he speaks.  
" My father wanted my mother killed. She was a... loose end, to him. Oleg told me.   
I was so angry, I went to my father straight away. I never checked to see if anyone was watching. I didn't think. No one usually goes to the seawards battlements. My father liked to think there."   
He takes a ragged breath and keeps going.  
" I worshipped my father as a child. He taught me how to fight. He used to let me watch the army train. He even took me to battlefields, sometimes. I wanted to be just like him."  
His mouth curls, like the last sentence pained him. He looks at Napoleon, and it's like meeting a stranger.   
It's odd, this jarring realisation that he doesn't really know Illya at all. Curiosity mixed with something stronger and nameless beats harder than ever against the walls of his chest. He doesn't just want to know him, he realises. He wants to understand.  
" Oleg saw me kill him."   
Napoleon blinks. Things slot into place. " The head of the military?"   
Illya bows his head in agreement.   
"He has used it ever since. I cannot fire him or ignore him, or..."   
His eyes burn with what could be either fury or shame or perhaps both.  
" I committed patricide. By law, I should be hanged."   
Napoleon isn't expecting the hurt at the idea of Illya hanged, and it wedges itself in his chest awkwardly. On pure unadulterated impulse he says;   
"I was trying to overthrow the ruler in my country."

Illya blinks. Then understanding flashes through his gaze. " Is that why you want to train?"   
Napoleon nods awkwardly. It's also kind of because if he makes an escape attempt, he needs to be in good form, but he doubts that would be a good answer.  
" I'm also scared of heights." Illya raises an eyebrow and gestures at the surrounding space. Napoleon shrugs in acknowledgment of his position. " Curiosity killed the cat, after all."   
Illya huffs in genuine laughter at that, and Napoleon is glad. The air feels less charged, but it is different in ways he cannot properly explain.   
His tenuous friendship with Illya has always existed with the fact that Illya's father killed his. It had shaped how he thought of Illya. Of course it did. Blood is thicker than water, and family is a bond.  
But Illya killed his father. Illya killed his father. It shouldn't matter to him, but it does. How could it not?  
He is hit again with the fact that he doesn't really know Illya.   
Illya who killed the king to save his mother. Illya who lets a slave train with him, for no good reason. Illya, who has a tiny sideways smirk that hitches his mouth up when he thinks he's being clever.  
Why did he ever think he knew him?

He has also run out of things to say. It's hard to make conversation after you've suddenly discovered the reason the Prince is not a king.   
Illya huffs quietly, rocking back against the wall. His face has fallen into its default inscrutable expression, the one that lets nothing out.   
Napoleon doesn't think he's ever met anyone so difficult to read. Curiosity, ever unsatisfied, twists against his ribs.  
He shifts again, his now soaked clothes dragging on his skin uncomfortably. Illya shifts too, shirt sticking to him. Napoleon pretends not to notice the way the fabric clings to the muscles across his arms and chest, the way the material has gone near translucent.  
He looks back to the sea, determined. If Ezza could read his thoughts now, he'd have a field day.   
The thought of a physic Ezza is enough to make him physically shudder in terror. Illya notices, looks at him questioningly.   
"Cold?"   
Napoleon starts to shake his head, then thinks about it. "Kinda. I might go back inside. You should too. You must be freezing." Illya shrugs, but motions for him to edge back along the ledge.   
Moving back is worse because he realises he's going to have to turn to get back into the tunnel. Fear courses through his limbs as he shifts slowly around, the sound of the waves beneath him suddenly deafening. His limbs are heavy. His blood is treacle.He is flooded with relief when he enters the dark tunnel entrance, the stone hard and mercifully unyielding beneath his hands and legs.

Behind him, he hears Illya turning himself around over the drop. There is a muffled curse, a brief scrabbling sound where Napoleon's insides try to strangle him along with thoughts like: oh holy god rock fall collapse he's dead I'm gonna fucking die oh fuck, before there's a rustling noise and Illya says;  
"Are you going to stay there all night?"   
Napoleon makes a spirited attempt at kicking him backwards, but Illya just laughs.

The armoury has never seemed so relieving. Napoleon straightens, grumbling to himself about near death drops and asshole princes. Illya shoves the shelf back into place, then pads towards the sword rack.   
He digs out his preferred weapon, curses as his shirt sticks to him, and drags it over his head. The flickering rushlight lines his muscles, and he suddenly looks so beautiful and distant Napoleon temporarily loses his breath.   
He doesn't know what he thinks anymore. Illya is not his father. Illya is still Illya. He is still stunningly handsome.   
Why does he even care?   
Illya, unaware of his inner turmoil, chucks him a sword. The weight of the pommel soothes him. Drills, he can do. He will hack a dummy to shreds, and it will fix his problems. Not that there is a problem.

Illya advances towards him, eyes glinting and sword swinging. Fuck. He parries automatically. He's seen Illya shirtless before. He's always been objectively handsome. Nothing has changed. He presses into an attack, sword whispering through the air. Illya swings up his sword to block him, and he falls into the pattern of the fight. By now they both know how the other fights, and it's a struggle to gain an upper hand. But Napoleon's thoughts are blazing in his head, and he swings faster, strikes harder than he usually would.   
The world narrows down to the flickering rushlights, the way his sword cuts the air. The way his blade interacts, the scrape of metal on metal, the ringing of swords clashing at speed. He starts to shift gradually, padding forwards inch by inch, driving Illya back. Illya cottons on and shifts accordingly. It is almost dancing, to fight like this.  
The sound of a rumble of thunder makes him start, stupidly. It gives Illya a second's avantage and he knows it, pressing in with his sword whirring in a dizzying arc. Napoleon scrabbles to defend himself, cursing as he loses ground.  
Illya beams, smug and amused, eyes glowing with energy and determination and humour and a part of Napoleon's brain thinks, very quietly; I really fucking want to kiss him now.  
What.   
What?!  
Napoleon stumbles, busy trying to scream mentally at himself, and Illya notices. He swirls in, the flat of his blade collides hard with the back of his legs, and Illya gives him a hefty shove in the chest for good measure. He goes over backwards heavily and blinks dazedly up at the ceiling, the air punched out of him.  
Illya plants his feet on either side of his torso and sinks slowly to his knees until his weight is on Napoleon, fixing him in place. Napoleon gives him a half hearted knee in the back and swings his sword up from the ground. Illya snorts derisively and leans forward, pinning his hands easily.   
Outside, thunder rumbles. Illya is perfectly still apart from the way his chest heaves, muscles lined with fresh sweat and bronzed in torchlight. He could be a sculpture. He should be sculpted. How do the artists here resist?  
The air is still stifling, heavy with the storm. Napoleon is acutely aware of the heat difference between air and Illya. The silence crackles, unbroken.

King slayer, he thinks, and it fits. Illya is as puzzling as ever, but Napoleon thinks that perhaps, now the shock has faded, some questions have been answered. It isn't enough. It never is.

He shifts slightly, back cold on the stone floor, and Illya blinks.  
"I win" he murmurs into the inches of space between them.   
He is so close. Napoleon watches the column of his throat move, his eyelashes. They should move. He should leave. He should stop thinking.   
Illya watches his hands, his shoulders, his chest, before settling on his face. His eyes are the exact colour of a stormy sea. You could drown in them far, far too easily.  
His traitorous brain mutters "if you leaned up now, you would be kissing."   
It's terrifying enough for Napoleon to move, shifting impatiently. Illya starts and shoots to his feet, heading back for the sword rack.   
"Good fight" he calls over his shoulder. Napoleon scrambles to his feet and heads for the door, leaving his sword on the floor out of likely misplaced pettiness.   
He practically runs for his room, slamming the door behind him.  
He wants to kiss Illya fucking Kuriakin, prince of fucking Aissur.   
He is fucking insane.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At 12.30 in the morning, have another chapter. A huge, huge thank you to those of you who are still reading this, despite my chaotic updates. You’re all awesome. As always, comments water my crops and feed my cat.   
> There is some violence in this chapter. It isn’t too bad, but be careful. (:

 

By morning, Napoleon has suitably soothed himself. It was adrenaline, it was shock, it was a one off, it was nothing.

Calmer, he goes to find breakfast. He will find Gaby, get some fruit and bread, and all will be fine. Gaby is safe, and normal, and doesn't have gorgeous sea coloured eyes that pull you in and drag you down...   
Gaby, He thinks sternly. Food. Ezza's horrendous humour.

Except Gaby isn't in the main hall, or the kitchens, or the baths. Napoleon realises now he has no Idea where her room is. She's usually just... around.

Ezza, when he asks, gives him a long and complicated series of instructions, and shoves him merrily in the apparently right direction.

In the end, he has to ask three other people, one of whom doesn't seem to be speaking the same language, but finally ends up in a sunny corridor at the top of one of the towers.   
Gaby's room is apparently the last one along, and he knocks cautiously on the unassuming wooden door, hoping he's not interrupting some stranger (or worse, a Noble).

To his relief, the yell of "Come in" is unmistakably Gaby's voice. Curious now, he pushes open the door and stops, amazed.

  
The room is small and light and every spot of wall space available is coated in drawings.   
Except, he realises, they aren't art. They're designs, schematics, plans.   
They are weapons, wings, sketches of parts moving together.   
There is charcoal on the floor, mounds of paper covered in more meticulous line drawings.  
In the centre of the room, her genius blazing out all around her, is Gaby. She is sketching furiously, hand sparking across the paper, filling it with sure, sharp lines. She looks up at him eventually, hand pulling the charcoal from the paper regretfully. She has charcoal dust on her nose.

  
“ I had no idea”   
He whispers, stunned. Gaby smiles, proud and amused. In the paper brightness of the room, her tanned skin glows. She looks perfectly in her element.

“ Why the hell are you still a slave? The military, don’t they know? You should be head of the fucking army.”

Gaby smirks at that, but it’s tinged with anger and sadness.  
“I’m a woman, Napoleon.”   
He stares blankly at her, waiting for the rest of her explanation.

She sighs, beckons him down to sit. " It must be different where you come from. Here, it’s enough to avoid giving me a job. That bastard Oleg won’t hear of it."

Her accent strengthens with annoyance, and Napoleon smiles despite himself.  
Aloud, he hears himself say; "What if I talked to the prince? "   
Gaby blinks, then laughs.

" I don’t think he’ll listen to you, but thanks. How do you expect to talk to him, anyway? It’s not like you actually do sleep with him."   
She laughs again at the outrageousness of it, and Napoleon joins in, trying not to look in any way like he might be thinking about what that might be like.

Illya’s chest last night, damp and gleaming, all smooth muscles, floats to mind.   
Gaby must notice something, because she squints up at him, looking puzzled.  
“ Are you ok? You look kinda spaced out.”

He shrugs then nods guiltily, grimly banishing thoughts of beautifully sculpted chests from mind. Gaby is looking worryingly thoughtful so, at random, he selects a diagram.  
“So. What does this do?”

He knows he’s in the clear when Gaby’s face lights up.   
“That is an idea for a machine that moves water by using this wheel and lever device here...”

After a three hour long slightly terrifyingly brilliant explanation for some ideas so beyond Napoleon’s understanding of mechanics it makes his head ache, Ezza literally runs into him.

They both stagger back, Ezza shaking his hair from his face. His eyes are wide and intense and a tad manic.  
“ Napoleon, thank god. It’s Oleg. There’s a big argument going on in the Prince’s audience chamber, and Oleg is demanding to see you. I didn’t ask.   
Go!”   
Napoleon allows himself half a second of supreme confusion before shaking himself and running, Ezza yelling; “And call him sir!” After him.  
The great carved doors are slightly open when he skids up to them, and he can hear voices raised slightly. One is unmistakably Illya, and the Other’s voice is rough, almost grating.

“- Losing the people! It isn’t natural, they think something is wrong with you. You should know this!”

Napoleon can hear the anger in Illya’s response.   
“ It is nothing to do with the public what I do with whom.”   
Napoleon knocks softly and enters. The room still glows from the sea, but it is cloudy today and the room is dimmer.   
Illya is standing by the window, his entire body wound tight with anger. A solitary finger ticking against his thigh is his only movement.   
The other man is short and stocky, with a chest bedecked with military ribbons. Oleg.  
He exclaims as Napoleon comes in, a cruel smile pulling his features into distortion.

“So this is the man! You. Come here.”

Unease prickles along his spine, but Napoleon walks out into the centre of the room. Oleg surveys him the way one might look at an inlaid table or piece of pottery. His gaze catches on the collar and he smirks coldly.

Napoleon grits his teeth, dislike eking through him.  
Oleg gestures to him then fixes his gaze on a Illya.  
“Well? Is there anything wrong with him?”   
Napoleon watches Illya’s knuckles go white, his fingernails digging into the flesh of his own palms.

“No.”   
The word is gritted out.

Oleg looks coldly satisfied.

“Well then, my lord, I fail to see the problem you seem to have. Why do you continually refuse to take anyone to bed? The public will believe you incapable. You know how rumour spreads.”

Napoleon’s eyebrow twitches. The ugly confidence of this man, abrasive and threatening, grates at him. It is a blatant abuse of power, and a risky one. He can practically feel murderous impulse radiating through the room.

Illya’s finger is tapping faster. His face is a tight mask of suppressed anger.  
The last time he was In here, he wanted nothing more than to see Illya shatter.  
Now, he wills him to be stronger than the anger that ripples beneath his skin.   
It will help nothing here.

“ I do not wish to.” The words are clipped and brutal.

Oleg tuts, and Napoleon really fucking wants to strangle him.  
“My lord, wishes are unimportant here. The public image has power. You know this. So I must assume that the fault lies with your slave.”

His eyes are as cold and empty as a shark’s, and he looks at Napoleon with a kind of surgical detachment.  
“You. Kneel.”

Napoleon blinks at the order, brisk and matter of fact.   
He will do a lot of things for survival, but he doesn’t think he could ever obey that, not to this small, cruel man with dead eyes. Not fucking ever. He digs his bare feet into the cool marble and grits his teeth.

Oleg sighs quietly. He shifts, and Napoleon notices that he’s been standing with a military stick tucked into his side. One end gleams dully in the light, a rounded knob of polished metal.  
“ I apologise, my lord. I had not realised what you have been expected to deal with.”   
He steps forward. Napoleon holds his ground. He will not submit, not to him. He can try to intimidate him all he likes.

“ I said, KNEEL.” The stick slams into the back of his knees hard, and Napoleon stumbles forward, legs stinging. He hadn’t thought Oleg would actually touch him.  
He swings back around to face him, and is caught in the side of the face by that dully shining metal.

Stars burst in his vision. Disjointingly, he seems to be underwater, and the floor is suddenly very close then very hard.  
Distantly, he hears Illya roaring something loud and angry, and the sound of a door slamming.  
There are warm hands on his face, and he tries to shift away from them. He’s tired of being hit. His head hurts.  
Blue-green eyes swim into view, and he relaxes. Illya won’t hurt him.

The side of his face is wet. He can smell copper. The hands on his face are still there. That’s ok. It’s Illya.   
His head hurts worse.   
He thinks Illya is talking, but it doesn’t seem to be in a language he knows or understands.   
He wants to sleep now. His eyes don’t want to stay open.   
Illya says something loud, and Napoleon wonders what he wanted as he slides quietly into oblivion.

  
When Napoleon wakes up, his first thought is ow.

His face dully aches where he was hit, and the skin around it feels too tight. He’s in a room containing a lot of beds, herbs, a terrifying set of surgical tools, and Gaby and Ezza peering worriedly at him. He smiles reassuringly at them, then ruins the effect by wincing as his skin protests the movement.

" I didn’t call Oleg sir" he admits.   
Ezza snorts and ruffles his hair.  
" Glad to see your mind hasn’t changed from the blow."   
Napoleon gives him his best smirk, ignoring the twinge. " How in hell did I get here?"

Gaby gives him a gently disapproving look, though her brow is still crumpled with worry.   
“ There was something of a commotion. A lot of shouting and then Oleg comes shooting out. Garth was waiting, it was him who carried you up here. The Prince has been pacing around in here scaring the nurses. He only just left.”

Napoleon feels oddly bereft at the realisation he just missed Illya, but ignores it. He prods at his head cautiously to distract himself. Ouch. The blow definitely split the skin. He wonders how long it’ll take to heal. He hates bandages.

Ezza pats his hair comfortingly, and gives him a terrifying smile.   
“Don’t worry, you haven’t lost your looks. The prince will still love you. I need to find Garth.”

Napoleon splutters in indignant protest, but Ezza just skips toward the door.   
Gaby settles herself more comfortably next to him. She waits until Ezza has shut the door behind him, then turns determinedly down to him.   
Uh oh.  
“Napoleon... when you said you’d ask the prince about getting me a job, you were joking, right? You don’t really talk to him, do you?” Napoleon puts on his best why would anyone talk to me, an innocent man? Face.   
Gaby just looks probingly at him.

“ It’s just... just now before you woke up, he was stalking about in here like a lion protecting its cub. I’ve never seen him look so angry.”

Napoleon tries to look innocently confused.   
Gaby rolls her eyes.   
“ Fine, don’t tell me. I don’t care if he’s screwing you senseless.”   
She gives him a flinty glare.  
“ But you’re way under his skin, Napoleon. Don’t forget that. He looked at you like he was scared to loose you.”

Napoleon, slightly stunned, blinks.   
“ Gaby, there’s no way. He tolerates me, sure. But I think scared to loose me is pushing it.”   
He remembers the way Illya’s hands had cradled his face.  
Huh.  
Maybe they really are friends.

 

 

 


End file.
